


03:15

by strangeera



Series: You're alright [6]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeera/pseuds/strangeera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My bedroom. I'm sitting on the bed, pulling on socks, wishing he'd said anything other than TGI Friday's when I asked him where he wanted to go out to eat tonight, my treat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	03:15

My bedroom. I'm sitting on the bed, pulling on socks, wishing he'd said anything other than TGI Friday's when I asked him where he wanted to go out to eat tonight, my treat. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the nearest TGI's is in Leeds, that I'm absolutely knackered, really can't be arsed to drive that far, and besides, you can't even book a table. We'll be waiting at the bar for forty five minutes, and he'll be looking at me like he's trying to anticipate which massive fuck-up I'm going to commit next, and I'll probably look sad, and say something that leaves him reeling, gasping for breath in that dramatic way he likes to act, sometimes. 

 

I'm still trying to make it up to him, if I even can. I'll probably spend my whole life doing that. Gonna try, anyway. Ever since I was a kid I've had this insatiable urge to just cause trouble, any way I can. I can't help it. Maybe I just want attention, maybe I'm just burned out, inside. Sometimes he looks at me like he's checking for horns, and sometimes, irrationally, I just want to tear him to pieces. I'm trying hard to be a better person, but sometimes I just want to take him for everything he's worth, you know?

 

I'm pulling on the desert boots I got from Primark last winter for about a tenner, but they look expensive. The radio's still on in the bathroom, Twenty One Pilots, hate it, and my eyes hurt. I didn't sleep last night. I don't sleep most nights. My scar was itching like mad and the bed felt like it was vibrating. I was getting up to have a wee every fifteen minutes, staring at my phone in the dark, reading the Wikipedia page on the pacific ocean, fuck knows.

 

When I did finally fall asleep, about 03:15, I fell into a really vivid dream about him, laying on my bed in a white room, wearing a black kimono, open in the middle revealing a sliver of bare, scarred flesh and a small, wet, red hole. He was staring at me, teeth bared, legs spread, fingering the wound slowly, and moaning. When I woke up I was shaking and the bed was wet with sweat and I'd knocked over a glass of water on the night stand, next to the bed. I lay in bed for an extra twenty minutes thinking about it, which I never do, staring at the ceiling, absently running my finger across the small patch of silky skin on my chest. Still feels like it doesn't belong to me, like it happened to somebody else.

 

At the cafe this morning, picking up an Americano for me and a “low fat maple syrup macchiato, just kidding,” cup of tea with two sugars for Aaron, who was waiting in the car, playing Two Dots on my old iPhone and smoking that gross vaporiser (“don't forget the sugar, honestly,”) Victoria was sitting alone in one of the chairs, lazily reading the horoscopes in the back of OK! magazine. When she read mine it said something about the importance of dreams, or whatever, and although I don't believe in that stuff my throat went dry, and I coughed, said see ya later, and I forgot the sugar. “Honestly?”

 

We were in the car. “There's some sour patch kids you left in the glovebox,” I said, thinking about the dream. It was one of those dreams that really gets under your skin, you know. I glanced at his fingers and felt a bit sick. I used to love watching him get changed, before. The curve of his back before he pulled on a t-shirt. The way he'd ask me to turn the big light off so I wouldn't see the scars. I miss his skin. All dusky and scarred, like lines on a map. One day they'll lead us somewhere good, and one day I'll be a better person. “If you eat them at the same time it's basically the same thing.”

 

“It's not, at all,” he said, with the grimace face he does, and all I could think about was the white bedroom, and him, writhing. 

 

“Get the fuck over it,” I felt like saying, but didn't. “Drop some of 'em in it,” I said, not really thinking about it, and started the car.

 

-

 

He's sitting on the sofa in the living room, drinking a strawberry Ribena and playing Star Wars Battlefront on my PS4 with Arnold. I grab the belt from the coat rail on my bedroom door, next to one of his hoodies, and he says,” sorry, but that was some bullshit,” from the other room, presumably to Arnold. “Sniper's shit.” The sniper is shit. Goes wherever the fuck it wants since they patched it. Pick up my watch from the night stand and I hear him say, quietly, “why's he always take so fucking long?”

 

It takes Aaron literally ten minutes to get ready to go anywhere. I say “posh” and he thinks Pizza Express instead of Pizza Hut. I say “dress up” and he wears a jumper instead of a hoodie, Good Trainers instead of actual shoes. I'm not complaining though, something about the way he refuses to give a shit about any of that stuff feels transgressive, and it rubs off on me, makes me feel a little bit rebellious. “Can't find the right fucking trainers!” I shout back in monotone as I'm putting on my watch, trying but failing to emulate that self righteous, couldn't care less attitude he does so well. Drives me crazy, mostly. Sometimes it makes me want to pull his eyelashes out. Trying to overcome that, though!

 

“It's like being mates with Ariana Grande.” Mates, like fingers in a wound. I'm shaking, breathless, but annoyed with myself. Heard it before, know what we are, what I did. Lines on a map. All roads lead to somewhere. My scar hurts. It does that. I sit down on the bed, thinking about putting on fake plastic vampire teeth, consuming him completely. 

 

I'm trying.

 

-

 

“You sure you want to go to TGI's?” I ask later, when the ugliness has passed, leaning against the space between the bedroom door and the door frame, casually fingering it. Think about the dream and stop. “Don't you want to go somewhere, I dunno, more fancy?” He's wearing a black jumper, black chino's, and black Good Trainers. “I'm paying.” I'm pushing it, I know I am. I can't help it, I'm charming. He looks up at me, and he's got the face on that makes me feel like Inside Out Boy from Nickelodeon from when I was a kid, watching Hey Arnold and Real Monsters on Saturday morning with Andy. He sees right through me, and you know, it's still such a thrill, and he says, “I already told you we'll go half on it.” I knew he was going to say that, was counting on it. Something about the self righteous indignation really gets me going, and I'm feeling bizarrely needy. From the bathroom, UGH! by The 1975. I like this one, have the album in my car. Reminds me of him, drinking milkshakes in my car. The birthday card that said Happy Birthday Just Saying he gave me a day late.

 

“I fancy that Jack Daniel's sauce, anyway,” he says softening, sipping the strawberry Ribena. 

 

“They sell that at Sainsbury's,” I say with a sigh, knowing it's futile, but loving it, and he says, with raised eyebrows and that grimace, “you mad?”

 

“Alright, I surrender,” I say, with an exasperated, exaggerated sigh, playfully slumping into the living room and falling onto the sofa next to him. The Jack Daniel's sauce is pretty good, he's right. “You got me. I'm a slave for you.” Pushing it, my heart's racing. 

 

He looks up at me, smirk on his face I haven't seen in a long time and I feel like all my organs have moved around inside my body, and I'm a little bit hard, and I feel like I've been punched in the chest, but in a good way. I'm so into it, and he says, after a few seconds just staring at me, smirking, “you wish.” Oh, I wish. Wanna put my hand on his leg, the back of his neck, bite hard into his neck. Drink his blood, but not really. I'm just so egvrwefcxbsgkhbr3'q;l23.

 

“Oh yeah?” I say, but it's suddenly too much. Fingers in a wound, just mates. Lines. He looks away blushing. He thinks I don't notice. Makes me feel like I'm eating my own heart, though. “Sorry,” I say, punching him in the leg softly. “Mates?” He just nods. “You ready?”

 

“Am I ready?” he scoffs, shutting down the Playstation. Looks at Arnold, incredulous, rolling his eyes, thumb out at me, and he says, “this fucking guy.”

 

From the bathroom, there's nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Before I get into the notes, I just wanna say a huge thank you to all of you who have read this. It definitely took a different direction than what I originally planned, but I'm really happy with it. Ending it as "mates," felt like the right thing to do, but who knows. Robert POV so a whole different way of writing, punctuation and all that. I couldn't get this vampire thing out of my head, had to put it in there. Twenty One Pilots and The 1975 came up on my playlist while writing so that's why they're there, haha. Anyway. Hope y'all liked this. Already planning another series. Take care.


End file.
